MY love and I among the mountains strayed,When heaven and earth in summer heat were still,Aware anon that at our feet were laid,Within a sunny hollow of the hill,A long-haired shepherd lover and a maid.They saw nor heard us, who a space above,With hands clasped close as hers were clasped in his,Marked how the gentle golden sunlight stroveTo play about their leaf-crowned curls, and kissTheir burnished slender limbs, half-barèd to his love.But grave or pensive seemed the boy to grow,For while upon the grass unfingered layThe slim twin-pipes, he ever watched with slowDream-laden looks the ridge that far awaySurmounts the sleeping midsummer with snow.These things we saw; moreover we could hearThe girl’s soft voice of laughter, grown more boldWith the utter noonday silence, sweet and clear:“Why dost thou think? By thinking one grows old.Wouldst thou for all the world be old, my dear?”Here my love turned to me, but her eyes toldHer thought with smiles before she spoke a word;And being quick their meaning to behold,I could not chuse but echo what we heard:“Sweetheart, wouldst thou for all the world be old?”J. B. B. Nichols.
MY love and I among the mountains strayed,When heaven and earth in summer heat were still,Aware anon that at our feet were laid,Within a sunny hollow of the hill,A long-haired shepherd lover and a maid.They saw nor heard us, who a space above,With hands clasped close as hers were clasped in his,Marked how the gentle golden sunlight stroveTo play about their leaf-crowned curls, and kissTheir burnished slender limbs, half-barèd to his love.But grave or pensive seemed the boy to grow,For while upon the grass unfingered layThe slim twin-pipes, he ever watched with slowDream-laden looks the ridge that far awaySurmounts the sleeping midsummer with snow.These things we saw; moreover we could hearThe girl’s soft voice of laughter, grown more boldWith the utter noonday silence, sweet and clear:“Why dost thou think? By thinking one grows old.Wouldst thou for all the world be old, my dear?”Here my love turned to me, but her eyes toldHer thought with smiles before she spoke a word;And being quick their meaning to behold,I could not chuse but echo what we heard:“Sweetheart, wouldst thou for all the world be old?”J. B. B. Nichols.
MY love and I among the mountains strayed,When heaven and earth in summer heat were still,Aware anon that at our feet were laid,Within a sunny hollow of the hill,A long-haired shepherd lover and a maid.
They saw nor heard us, who a space above,With hands clasped close as hers were clasped in his,Marked how the gentle golden sunlight stroveTo play about their leaf-crowned curls, and kissTheir burnished slender limbs, half-barèd to his love.
But grave or pensive seemed the boy to grow,For while upon the grass unfingered layThe slim twin-pipes, he ever watched with slowDream-laden looks the ridge that far awaySurmounts the sleeping midsummer with snow.
These things we saw; moreover we could hearThe girl’s soft voice of laughter, grown more boldWith the utter noonday silence, sweet and clear:“Why dost thou think? By thinking one grows old.Wouldst thou for all the world be old, my dear?”
Here my love turned to me, but her eyes toldHer thought with smiles before she spoke a word;And being quick their meaning to behold,I could not chuse but echo what we heard:“Sweetheart, wouldst thou for all the world be old?”
J. B. B. Nichols.
THE restless years that come and go,The cruel years so swift and slow,Once in our lives perchance will showWhat they can give that we may know;Too soon perchance, or else too late;We may look back or we may wait;The years are incompassionate,And who shall touch the robe of fate?Once only; haply if we keepWatch with our lamps and do not sleep,Our eyes shall, when the night is deep,Behold the bridegroom’s face,—and weep.Alas! for better far it wereThat Love were heedless of our prayerThan that his glory he should bareAnd show himself to our despair.Better to wander till we dieAnd never come the door anigh,Than weeping sore without to lieAnd get no answer to our cry.O child! the night is cold and blind,The way is rough with rain and wind,Narrow and steep and hard to find;But I have found thee—love, be kind.J. B. B. Nichols.
THE restless years that come and go,The cruel years so swift and slow,Once in our lives perchance will showWhat they can give that we may know;Too soon perchance, or else too late;We may look back or we may wait;The years are incompassionate,And who shall touch the robe of fate?Once only; haply if we keepWatch with our lamps and do not sleep,Our eyes shall, when the night is deep,Behold the bridegroom’s face,—and weep.Alas! for better far it wereThat Love were heedless of our prayerThan that his glory he should bareAnd show himself to our despair.Better to wander till we dieAnd never come the door anigh,Than weeping sore without to lieAnd get no answer to our cry.O child! the night is cold and blind,The way is rough with rain and wind,Narrow and steep and hard to find;But I have found thee—love, be kind.J. B. B. Nichols.
THE restless years that come and go,The cruel years so swift and slow,Once in our lives perchance will showWhat they can give that we may know;
Too soon perchance, or else too late;We may look back or we may wait;The years are incompassionate,And who shall touch the robe of fate?
Once only; haply if we keepWatch with our lamps and do not sleep,Our eyes shall, when the night is deep,Behold the bridegroom’s face,—and weep.
Alas! for better far it wereThat Love were heedless of our prayerThan that his glory he should bareAnd show himself to our despair.
Better to wander till we dieAnd never come the door anigh,Than weeping sore without to lieAnd get no answer to our cry.
O child! the night is cold and blind,The way is rough with rain and wind,Narrow and steep and hard to find;But I have found thee—love, be kind.J. B. B. Nichols.
OH, would, oh, would that thou and I,Now this brief day of love is past,Could toward the sunset straightway fly,And fold our wearied wings at lastThere, where the sea-line meets the sky.A sweet thing and a strange ’twould beThus, thus to break our prison bars,And know that we at last were freeAs voiceful waves and silent stars,—There, where the sky-line meets the sea.But vain the longing! thou and I,As we have been must ever be,Yet thither, wind, oh, waft my sigh,There where the sky-line meets the sea,—There where the sea-line meets the sky.James Ashcroft Noble.
OH, would, oh, would that thou and I,Now this brief day of love is past,Could toward the sunset straightway fly,And fold our wearied wings at lastThere, where the sea-line meets the sky.A sweet thing and a strange ’twould beThus, thus to break our prison bars,And know that we at last were freeAs voiceful waves and silent stars,—There, where the sky-line meets the sea.But vain the longing! thou and I,As we have been must ever be,Yet thither, wind, oh, waft my sigh,There where the sky-line meets the sea,—There where the sea-line meets the sky.James Ashcroft Noble.
OH, would, oh, would that thou and I,Now this brief day of love is past,Could toward the sunset straightway fly,And fold our wearied wings at lastThere, where the sea-line meets the sky.
A sweet thing and a strange ’twould beThus, thus to break our prison bars,And know that we at last were freeAs voiceful waves and silent stars,—There, where the sky-line meets the sea.
But vain the longing! thou and I,As we have been must ever be,Yet thither, wind, oh, waft my sigh,There where the sky-line meets the sea,—There where the sea-line meets the sky.James Ashcroft Noble.
AZURE of sky and silver of cloudIn the deep dark water show,Amber of field and emerald of woodThat were pictured long ago.Here, as of old, the beauty above,And its shadow there below;Why was their message jubilant then,And their meaning now but woe?Nay, not the same, O fool, as of yore!These be other leaves that grow,Other the harvests, other the waves;Other the breezes that blow.Sameness in sooth, but difference too;And a simple change I know,Within beholder, without in scene,It may alter meaning so!Shadow of her who looked down with me,In the depths so long ago—Were all your archness glimmering there,Would the picture breathe but woe?Joseph O’Connor.
AZURE of sky and silver of cloudIn the deep dark water show,Amber of field and emerald of woodThat were pictured long ago.Here, as of old, the beauty above,And its shadow there below;Why was their message jubilant then,And their meaning now but woe?Nay, not the same, O fool, as of yore!These be other leaves that grow,Other the harvests, other the waves;Other the breezes that blow.Sameness in sooth, but difference too;And a simple change I know,Within beholder, without in scene,It may alter meaning so!Shadow of her who looked down with me,In the depths so long ago—Were all your archness glimmering there,Would the picture breathe but woe?Joseph O’Connor.
AZURE of sky and silver of cloudIn the deep dark water show,Amber of field and emerald of woodThat were pictured long ago.
Here, as of old, the beauty above,And its shadow there below;Why was their message jubilant then,And their meaning now but woe?
Nay, not the same, O fool, as of yore!These be other leaves that grow,Other the harvests, other the waves;Other the breezes that blow.
Sameness in sooth, but difference too;And a simple change I know,Within beholder, without in scene,It may alter meaning so!
Shadow of her who looked down with me,In the depths so long ago—Were all your archness glimmering there,Would the picture breathe but woe?Joseph O’Connor.
HATH any loved you well down there,Summer or winter through?Down there, have you found any fairLaid in the grave with you?Is death’s long kiss a richer kissThan mine was wont to be?Or have you gone to some far bliss,And quite forgotten me?What soft enamouring of sleepHath you in some soft way?What charmed death holdeth you with deepStrange lure by night and day?A little space below the grass,Out of the sun and shade;But worlds away from me, alas!Down there where you are laid!My bright hair’s waved and wasted gold,What is it now to theeWhether the rose-red life I holdOr white death holdeth me?Down there you love the grave’s own green,And evermore you raveOf some sweet seraph you have seenOr dreamed of in the grave.There you shall lie as you have lain,Though in the world aboveAnother live your life again,Loving again your love;Is it not sweet beneath the palm?Is not the warm day rifeWith some long mystic golden calmBetter than love and life?The broad quaint odorous leaves, like handsWeaving the fair day through,Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands,While death weaves sleep for you;And many a strange rich breathing soundRavishes morn and noon;And in that place you must have foundDeath a delicious swoon.Hold me no longer for a wordI used to say or sing;Ah! long ago you must have heardSo many a sweeter thing:For rich earth must have reached your heart,And turned the faith to flowers;And warm wind stolen, part by part,Your soul through faithless hours.And many a soft seed must have wonSoil of some yielding thought,To bring a bloom up to the sunThat else had ne’er been brought;And doubtless many a passionate hueHath made that place more fair,Making some passionate part of youFaithless to me down there.Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
HATH any loved you well down there,Summer or winter through?Down there, have you found any fairLaid in the grave with you?Is death’s long kiss a richer kissThan mine was wont to be?Or have you gone to some far bliss,And quite forgotten me?What soft enamouring of sleepHath you in some soft way?What charmed death holdeth you with deepStrange lure by night and day?A little space below the grass,Out of the sun and shade;But worlds away from me, alas!Down there where you are laid!My bright hair’s waved and wasted gold,What is it now to theeWhether the rose-red life I holdOr white death holdeth me?Down there you love the grave’s own green,And evermore you raveOf some sweet seraph you have seenOr dreamed of in the grave.There you shall lie as you have lain,Though in the world aboveAnother live your life again,Loving again your love;Is it not sweet beneath the palm?Is not the warm day rifeWith some long mystic golden calmBetter than love and life?The broad quaint odorous leaves, like handsWeaving the fair day through,Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands,While death weaves sleep for you;And many a strange rich breathing soundRavishes morn and noon;And in that place you must have foundDeath a delicious swoon.Hold me no longer for a wordI used to say or sing;Ah! long ago you must have heardSo many a sweeter thing:For rich earth must have reached your heart,And turned the faith to flowers;And warm wind stolen, part by part,Your soul through faithless hours.And many a soft seed must have wonSoil of some yielding thought,To bring a bloom up to the sunThat else had ne’er been brought;And doubtless many a passionate hueHath made that place more fair,Making some passionate part of youFaithless to me down there.Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
HATH any loved you well down there,Summer or winter through?Down there, have you found any fairLaid in the grave with you?Is death’s long kiss a richer kissThan mine was wont to be?Or have you gone to some far bliss,And quite forgotten me?
What soft enamouring of sleepHath you in some soft way?What charmed death holdeth you with deepStrange lure by night and day?A little space below the grass,Out of the sun and shade;But worlds away from me, alas!Down there where you are laid!
My bright hair’s waved and wasted gold,What is it now to theeWhether the rose-red life I holdOr white death holdeth me?Down there you love the grave’s own green,And evermore you raveOf some sweet seraph you have seenOr dreamed of in the grave.
There you shall lie as you have lain,Though in the world aboveAnother live your life again,Loving again your love;Is it not sweet beneath the palm?Is not the warm day rifeWith some long mystic golden calmBetter than love and life?
The broad quaint odorous leaves, like handsWeaving the fair day through,Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands,While death weaves sleep for you;And many a strange rich breathing soundRavishes morn and noon;And in that place you must have foundDeath a delicious swoon.
Hold me no longer for a wordI used to say or sing;Ah! long ago you must have heardSo many a sweeter thing:For rich earth must have reached your heart,And turned the faith to flowers;And warm wind stolen, part by part,Your soul through faithless hours.
And many a soft seed must have wonSoil of some yielding thought,To bring a bloom up to the sunThat else had ne’er been brought;And doubtless many a passionate hueHath made that place more fair,Making some passionate part of youFaithless to me down there.Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
HAS summer come without the rose,Or left the bird behind?Is the blue changed above thee,O world! or am I blind?Will you change every flower that grows,Or only change this spot,Where she who said, I love thee,Now says, I love thee not?The skies seemed true above thee,The rose true on the tree;The bird seemed true the summer through,But all proved false to me.World, is there one good thing in you,Life, love, or death—or what?Since lips that sang, I love thee,Have said, I love thee not?I think the sun’s kiss will scarce fallInto one flower’s gold cup;I think the bird will miss me,And give the summer up.O sweet place! desolate in tallWild grass, have you forgotHow her lips loved to kiss meNow that they kiss me not?Be false or fair above me,Come back with any face,Summer! do I care what you do?You cannot change one place—The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,The grave I make this spot—Here, where she used to love me,Here, where she loves me not.Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
HAS summer come without the rose,Or left the bird behind?Is the blue changed above thee,O world! or am I blind?Will you change every flower that grows,Or only change this spot,Where she who said, I love thee,Now says, I love thee not?The skies seemed true above thee,The rose true on the tree;The bird seemed true the summer through,But all proved false to me.World, is there one good thing in you,Life, love, or death—or what?Since lips that sang, I love thee,Have said, I love thee not?I think the sun’s kiss will scarce fallInto one flower’s gold cup;I think the bird will miss me,And give the summer up.O sweet place! desolate in tallWild grass, have you forgotHow her lips loved to kiss meNow that they kiss me not?Be false or fair above me,Come back with any face,Summer! do I care what you do?You cannot change one place—The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,The grave I make this spot—Here, where she used to love me,Here, where she loves me not.Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
HAS summer come without the rose,Or left the bird behind?Is the blue changed above thee,O world! or am I blind?Will you change every flower that grows,Or only change this spot,Where she who said, I love thee,Now says, I love thee not?
The skies seemed true above thee,The rose true on the tree;The bird seemed true the summer through,But all proved false to me.World, is there one good thing in you,Life, love, or death—or what?Since lips that sang, I love thee,Have said, I love thee not?
I think the sun’s kiss will scarce fallInto one flower’s gold cup;I think the bird will miss me,And give the summer up.O sweet place! desolate in tallWild grass, have you forgotHow her lips loved to kiss meNow that they kiss me not?
Be false or fair above me,Come back with any face,Summer! do I care what you do?You cannot change one place—The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,The grave I make this spot—Here, where she used to love me,Here, where she loves me not.Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
OHEART full of song in the sweet song-weather,A voice fills each bower, a wing shakes each tree,Come forth, O winged singer, on song’s fairest feather,And make a sweet fame of my love and of me.The blithe world shall ever have fair loving leisure,And long is the summer for bird and for bee;But too short the summer and too keen the pleasureOf me kissing her and of her kissing me.Songs shall not cease of the hills and the heather;Songs shall not fail of the land and the sea:But, O heart, if you sing not while we are together,What man shall remember my love or me?Some million of summers hath been and not known her,Hath known and forgotten loves less fair than she;But one summer knew her, and grew glad to own her,And made her its flower, and gave her to me.And she and I loving, on earth seem to severSome part of the great blue from heaven each day:I know that the heaven and the earth are for ever,But that which we take shall with us pass away.And that which she gives me shall be for no loverIn any new love-time, the world’s lasting while;The world, when it looses, shall never recoverThe gold of her hair nor the sun of her smile.A tree grows in heaven, where no season blanchesOr stays the new fruit through the long golden clime;My love reaches up, takes a fruit from its branches,And gives it to me to be mine for all time.What care I for other fruits, fed with new fire,Plucked down by new lovers in fair future line?The fruit that I have is the thing I desire,To live of and die of,—the sweet she makes mine.And she and I loving, are king of one summerAnd queen of one summer to gather and glean:The world is for us what no fair future comerShall find it or dream it could ever have been.The earth, as we lie on its bosom, seems pressingA heart up to bear us and mix with our heart;The blue, as we wonder, drops down a great blessingThat soothes us and fills us and makes the tears start.The summer is full of strange hundredth-year flowers,That breathe all their lives the warm air of our love,And never shall know a love other than oursTill once more some phœnix-star flowers above.The silver cloud passing is friend of our loving;The sea, never knowing this year from last year,Is thick with fair words, between roaring and soughing,For her and me only to gather and hear.Yea, the life that we lead now is better and sweeter,I think, than shall be in the world by and bye;For those days, be they longer or fewer or fleeter,I will not exchange on the day that I die.I shall die when the rose-tree about and above meHer red kissing mouth seems hath kissed summer through:I shall die on the day that she ceases to love me—But that will not be till the day she dies too.Then, fall on us, dead leaves of our dear roses,And ruins of summer fall on us erelong,And hide us away where our dead year reposes;Let all that we leave in the world be—a song.And, O song that I sing now while we are together,Go, sing to some new year of women and men,How I and she loved in the long loving weather,And ask if they love on as we two loved then.Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
OHEART full of song in the sweet song-weather,A voice fills each bower, a wing shakes each tree,Come forth, O winged singer, on song’s fairest feather,And make a sweet fame of my love and of me.The blithe world shall ever have fair loving leisure,And long is the summer for bird and for bee;But too short the summer and too keen the pleasureOf me kissing her and of her kissing me.Songs shall not cease of the hills and the heather;Songs shall not fail of the land and the sea:But, O heart, if you sing not while we are together,What man shall remember my love or me?Some million of summers hath been and not known her,Hath known and forgotten loves less fair than she;But one summer knew her, and grew glad to own her,And made her its flower, and gave her to me.And she and I loving, on earth seem to severSome part of the great blue from heaven each day:I know that the heaven and the earth are for ever,But that which we take shall with us pass away.And that which she gives me shall be for no loverIn any new love-time, the world’s lasting while;The world, when it looses, shall never recoverThe gold of her hair nor the sun of her smile.A tree grows in heaven, where no season blanchesOr stays the new fruit through the long golden clime;My love reaches up, takes a fruit from its branches,And gives it to me to be mine for all time.What care I for other fruits, fed with new fire,Plucked down by new lovers in fair future line?The fruit that I have is the thing I desire,To live of and die of,—the sweet she makes mine.And she and I loving, are king of one summerAnd queen of one summer to gather and glean:The world is for us what no fair future comerShall find it or dream it could ever have been.The earth, as we lie on its bosom, seems pressingA heart up to bear us and mix with our heart;The blue, as we wonder, drops down a great blessingThat soothes us and fills us and makes the tears start.The summer is full of strange hundredth-year flowers,That breathe all their lives the warm air of our love,And never shall know a love other than oursTill once more some phœnix-star flowers above.The silver cloud passing is friend of our loving;The sea, never knowing this year from last year,Is thick with fair words, between roaring and soughing,For her and me only to gather and hear.Yea, the life that we lead now is better and sweeter,I think, than shall be in the world by and bye;For those days, be they longer or fewer or fleeter,I will not exchange on the day that I die.I shall die when the rose-tree about and above meHer red kissing mouth seems hath kissed summer through:I shall die on the day that she ceases to love me—But that will not be till the day she dies too.Then, fall on us, dead leaves of our dear roses,And ruins of summer fall on us erelong,And hide us away where our dead year reposes;Let all that we leave in the world be—a song.And, O song that I sing now while we are together,Go, sing to some new year of women and men,How I and she loved in the long loving weather,And ask if they love on as we two loved then.Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
OHEART full of song in the sweet song-weather,A voice fills each bower, a wing shakes each tree,Come forth, O winged singer, on song’s fairest feather,And make a sweet fame of my love and of me.
The blithe world shall ever have fair loving leisure,And long is the summer for bird and for bee;But too short the summer and too keen the pleasureOf me kissing her and of her kissing me.
Songs shall not cease of the hills and the heather;Songs shall not fail of the land and the sea:But, O heart, if you sing not while we are together,What man shall remember my love or me?
Some million of summers hath been and not known her,Hath known and forgotten loves less fair than she;But one summer knew her, and grew glad to own her,And made her its flower, and gave her to me.
And she and I loving, on earth seem to severSome part of the great blue from heaven each day:I know that the heaven and the earth are for ever,But that which we take shall with us pass away.
And that which she gives me shall be for no loverIn any new love-time, the world’s lasting while;The world, when it looses, shall never recoverThe gold of her hair nor the sun of her smile.
A tree grows in heaven, where no season blanchesOr stays the new fruit through the long golden clime;My love reaches up, takes a fruit from its branches,And gives it to me to be mine for all time.
What care I for other fruits, fed with new fire,Plucked down by new lovers in fair future line?The fruit that I have is the thing I desire,To live of and die of,—the sweet she makes mine.
And she and I loving, are king of one summerAnd queen of one summer to gather and glean:The world is for us what no fair future comerShall find it or dream it could ever have been.
The earth, as we lie on its bosom, seems pressingA heart up to bear us and mix with our heart;The blue, as we wonder, drops down a great blessingThat soothes us and fills us and makes the tears start.
The summer is full of strange hundredth-year flowers,That breathe all their lives the warm air of our love,And never shall know a love other than oursTill once more some phœnix-star flowers above.
The silver cloud passing is friend of our loving;The sea, never knowing this year from last year,Is thick with fair words, between roaring and soughing,For her and me only to gather and hear.
Yea, the life that we lead now is better and sweeter,I think, than shall be in the world by and bye;For those days, be they longer or fewer or fleeter,I will not exchange on the day that I die.
I shall die when the rose-tree about and above meHer red kissing mouth seems hath kissed summer through:I shall die on the day that she ceases to love me—But that will not be till the day she dies too.
Then, fall on us, dead leaves of our dear roses,And ruins of summer fall on us erelong,And hide us away where our dead year reposes;Let all that we leave in the world be—a song.
And, O song that I sing now while we are together,Go, sing to some new year of women and men,How I and she loved in the long loving weather,And ask if they love on as we two loved then.Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
AS one would stand who saw a sudden lightFlood down the world, and so encompass him,And in that world illumined SeraphimBrooded above and gladdened to his sight;So stand I in the flame of one great thought,That broadens to my soul from where she waits,Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gatesOf all my being to the hopes I sought.Her words come to me like a summer-song,Blown from the throat of some sweet nightingale;I stand within her light the whole day long,And think upon her till the white stars fail:I lift my head towards all that makes life wise,And see no farther than my lady’s eyes.Gilbert Parker.
AS one would stand who saw a sudden lightFlood down the world, and so encompass him,And in that world illumined SeraphimBrooded above and gladdened to his sight;So stand I in the flame of one great thought,That broadens to my soul from where she waits,Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gatesOf all my being to the hopes I sought.Her words come to me like a summer-song,Blown from the throat of some sweet nightingale;I stand within her light the whole day long,And think upon her till the white stars fail:I lift my head towards all that makes life wise,And see no farther than my lady’s eyes.Gilbert Parker.
AS one would stand who saw a sudden lightFlood down the world, and so encompass him,And in that world illumined SeraphimBrooded above and gladdened to his sight;So stand I in the flame of one great thought,That broadens to my soul from where she waits,Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gatesOf all my being to the hopes I sought.Her words come to me like a summer-song,Blown from the throat of some sweet nightingale;I stand within her light the whole day long,And think upon her till the white stars fail:I lift my head towards all that makes life wise,And see no farther than my lady’s eyes.Gilbert Parker.
IT was not like your great and gracious ways!Do you, that have nought other to lament,Never, my Love, repentOf how, that July afternoon,You went,With sudden, unintelligible phrase,And frighten’d eye,Upon your journey of so many days,Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays,You whispering to me, for your voice was weak,Your harrowing praise.Well, it was well,To hear you such things speak,And I could tellWhat made your eyes a growing gloom of love,As a warm south-wind sombres a March grove.And it was like your great and gracious waysTo turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,Lifting the luminous, pathetic lashTo let the laughter flash,Whilst I drew near,Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear.But all at once to leave me at the last,More at the wonder than the loss aghast,With huddled, unintelligible phrase,And frighten’d eye,And go your journey of all daysWith not one kiss, or a good-bye,And the only loveless look the look with which you passed:’Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.Coventry Patmore.
IT was not like your great and gracious ways!Do you, that have nought other to lament,Never, my Love, repentOf how, that July afternoon,You went,With sudden, unintelligible phrase,And frighten’d eye,Upon your journey of so many days,Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays,You whispering to me, for your voice was weak,Your harrowing praise.Well, it was well,To hear you such things speak,And I could tellWhat made your eyes a growing gloom of love,As a warm south-wind sombres a March grove.And it was like your great and gracious waysTo turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,Lifting the luminous, pathetic lashTo let the laughter flash,Whilst I drew near,Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear.But all at once to leave me at the last,More at the wonder than the loss aghast,With huddled, unintelligible phrase,And frighten’d eye,And go your journey of all daysWith not one kiss, or a good-bye,And the only loveless look the look with which you passed:’Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.Coventry Patmore.
IT was not like your great and gracious ways!Do you, that have nought other to lament,Never, my Love, repentOf how, that July afternoon,You went,With sudden, unintelligible phrase,And frighten’d eye,Upon your journey of so many days,Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays,You whispering to me, for your voice was weak,Your harrowing praise.Well, it was well,To hear you such things speak,And I could tellWhat made your eyes a growing gloom of love,As a warm south-wind sombres a March grove.And it was like your great and gracious waysTo turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,Lifting the luminous, pathetic lashTo let the laughter flash,Whilst I drew near,Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear.But all at once to leave me at the last,More at the wonder than the loss aghast,With huddled, unintelligible phrase,And frighten’d eye,And go your journey of all daysWith not one kiss, or a good-bye,And the only loveless look the look with which you passed:’Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.Coventry Patmore.
THE ancient memories buried lie,And the olden fancies pass;The old sweet flower-thoughts wither and fly,And die as the April cowslips dieThat scatter the bloomy grass.
THE ancient memories buried lie,And the olden fancies pass;The old sweet flower-thoughts wither and fly,And die as the April cowslips dieThat scatter the bloomy grass.
THE ancient memories buried lie,And the olden fancies pass;The old sweet flower-thoughts wither and fly,And die as the April cowslips dieThat scatter the bloomy grass.
All dead, my dear! And the flowers are dead,And the happy blossoming spring;The winter comes with its iron tread,The fields with the dying sun are red,And the birds have ceased to sing.
All dead, my dear! And the flowers are dead,And the happy blossoming spring;The winter comes with its iron tread,The fields with the dying sun are red,And the birds have ceased to sing.
All dead, my dear! And the flowers are dead,And the happy blossoming spring;The winter comes with its iron tread,The fields with the dying sun are red,And the birds have ceased to sing.
I trace the steps on the wasted strandOf the vanished springtime’s feet:Withered and dead is our Fairyland,For Love and Death go hand in hand—Go hand in hand, my sweet!
I trace the steps on the wasted strandOf the vanished springtime’s feet:Withered and dead is our Fairyland,For Love and Death go hand in hand—Go hand in hand, my sweet!
I trace the steps on the wasted strandOf the vanished springtime’s feet:Withered and dead is our Fairyland,For Love and Death go hand in hand—Go hand in hand, my sweet!
Oh, what shall be the burden of our rhyme,And what shall be our ditty when the blossom’s on the lime?Our lips have fed on winter and on weariness too long:We will hail the royal summer with a golden-footed song.
Oh, what shall be the burden of our rhyme,And what shall be our ditty when the blossom’s on the lime?Our lips have fed on winter and on weariness too long:We will hail the royal summer with a golden-footed song.
Oh, what shall be the burden of our rhyme,And what shall be our ditty when the blossom’s on the lime?Our lips have fed on winter and on weariness too long:We will hail the royal summer with a golden-footed song.
O lady of my summer and my spring,We shall hear the blackbird whistle and the brown sweet throstle sing,And the low clear noise of waters running softly by our feet,When the sights and sounds of summer in the green clear fields are sweet.
O lady of my summer and my spring,We shall hear the blackbird whistle and the brown sweet throstle sing,And the low clear noise of waters running softly by our feet,When the sights and sounds of summer in the green clear fields are sweet.
O lady of my summer and my spring,We shall hear the blackbird whistle and the brown sweet throstle sing,And the low clear noise of waters running softly by our feet,When the sights and sounds of summer in the green clear fields are sweet.
We shall see the roses blowing in the green,The pink-lipped roses kissing in the golden summer sheen;We shall see the fields flower thick with stars and bells of summer gold,And the poppies burn out red and sweet across the corn-crowned wold.
We shall see the roses blowing in the green,The pink-lipped roses kissing in the golden summer sheen;We shall see the fields flower thick with stars and bells of summer gold,And the poppies burn out red and sweet across the corn-crowned wold.
We shall see the roses blowing in the green,The pink-lipped roses kissing in the golden summer sheen;We shall see the fields flower thick with stars and bells of summer gold,And the poppies burn out red and sweet across the corn-crowned wold.
The time shall be for pleasure, not for pain;There shall come no ghost of grieving for the past betwixt us twain;But in the time of roses our lives shall grow together,And our love be as the love of gods in the blue Olympian weather.John Payne.
The time shall be for pleasure, not for pain;There shall come no ghost of grieving for the past betwixt us twain;But in the time of roses our lives shall grow together,And our love be as the love of gods in the blue Olympian weather.John Payne.
The time shall be for pleasure, not for pain;There shall come no ghost of grieving for the past betwixt us twain;But in the time of roses our lives shall grow together,And our love be as the love of gods in the blue Olympian weather.John Payne.
OMOST fair God, O Love both new and old,That wast before the flowers of morning blew,Before the glad sun in his mail of goldLeapt into light across the first day’s dew;That art the first and last of our delight,That in the blue day and the purple nightHoldest the hearts of servant and of king,Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,That in thy hand hast heaven’s golden keyAnd hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
OMOST fair God, O Love both new and old,That wast before the flowers of morning blew,Before the glad sun in his mail of goldLeapt into light across the first day’s dew;That art the first and last of our delight,That in the blue day and the purple nightHoldest the hearts of servant and of king,Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,That in thy hand hast heaven’s golden keyAnd hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
OMOST fair God, O Love both new and old,That wast before the flowers of morning blew,Before the glad sun in his mail of goldLeapt into light across the first day’s dew;That art the first and last of our delight,That in the blue day and the purple nightHoldest the hearts of servant and of king,Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,That in thy hand hast heaven’s golden keyAnd hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so boldBut at thine altars in the dusk they sue?Even the straight pale goddess, silver-stoled,That kissed Endymion when the spring was new,To thee did homage in her own despite,When in the shadow of her wings of whiteShe slid down trembling from her moonèd ringTo where the Latmian boy lay slumbering,And in that kiss put off cold chastity.Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”
What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so boldBut at thine altars in the dusk they sue?Even the straight pale goddess, silver-stoled,That kissed Endymion when the spring was new,To thee did homage in her own despite,When in the shadow of her wings of whiteShe slid down trembling from her moonèd ringTo where the Latmian boy lay slumbering,And in that kiss put off cold chastity.Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”
What thing rejects thy mastery? Who so boldBut at thine altars in the dusk they sue?Even the straight pale goddess, silver-stoled,That kissed Endymion when the spring was new,To thee did homage in her own despite,When in the shadow of her wings of whiteShe slid down trembling from her moonèd ringTo where the Latmian boy lay slumbering,And in that kiss put off cold chastity.Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”
Master of men and gods, in every foldOf thy wide vans the sorceries that renewThe labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold,Lie hid—the quintessential charms that wooThe souls of flowers, slain with the sullen mightOf the dead year, and draw them to the light.Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands flingTheir spells of healing over land and sea,One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”
Master of men and gods, in every foldOf thy wide vans the sorceries that renewThe labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold,Lie hid—the quintessential charms that wooThe souls of flowers, slain with the sullen mightOf the dead year, and draw them to the light.Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands flingTheir spells of healing over land and sea,One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”
Master of men and gods, in every foldOf thy wide vans the sorceries that renewThe labouring earth, tranced with the winter’s cold,Lie hid—the quintessential charms that wooThe souls of flowers, slain with the sullen mightOf the dead year, and draw them to the light.Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands flingTheir spells of healing over land and sea,One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,“Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!”
I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands holdMyrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,And in thine eyes the royal heaven’s hue:But in thy lips’ clear colour, ruddy bright,The heart’s blood shines of many a hapless wight.Thou art not only fair and sweet as spring;Terror and beauty, fear and wonderingMeet on thy brow, amazing all that see:All men do praise thee, ay, and everything;Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands holdMyrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,And in thine eyes the royal heaven’s hue:But in thy lips’ clear colour, ruddy bright,The heart’s blood shines of many a hapless wight.Thou art not only fair and sweet as spring;Terror and beauty, fear and wonderingMeet on thy brow, amazing all that see:All men do praise thee, ay, and everything;Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands holdMyrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,And in thine eyes the royal heaven’s hue:But in thy lips’ clear colour, ruddy bright,The heart’s blood shines of many a hapless wight.Thou art not only fair and sweet as spring;Terror and beauty, fear and wonderingMeet on thy brow, amazing all that see:All men do praise thee, ay, and everything;Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
I fear thee, though I love. Who can beholdThe sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,What while the noontide over hill and woldFlames like a fire, except his mazèd viewWither and tremble? So thy splendid sightFills me with mingled gladness and affright.Thy visage haunts me in the waveringOf dreams, and in the dawn awakening,I feel thy radiance streaming full on me.Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring;Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
I fear thee, though I love. Who can beholdThe sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,What while the noontide over hill and woldFlames like a fire, except his mazèd viewWither and tremble? So thy splendid sightFills me with mingled gladness and affright.Thy visage haunts me in the waveringOf dreams, and in the dawn awakening,I feel thy radiance streaming full on me.Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring;Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
I fear thee, though I love. Who can beholdThe sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,What while the noontide over hill and woldFlames like a fire, except his mazèd viewWither and tremble? So thy splendid sightFills me with mingled gladness and affright.Thy visage haunts me in the waveringOf dreams, and in the dawn awakening,I feel thy radiance streaming full on me.Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring;Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
God above Gods, High and Eternal King,To whom the spheral symphonies do sing,I find no whither from thy power to flee,Save in thy pinions vast o’ershadowing.Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!John Payne.
God above Gods, High and Eternal King,To whom the spheral symphonies do sing,I find no whither from thy power to flee,Save in thy pinions vast o’ershadowing.Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!John Payne.
God above Gods, High and Eternal King,To whom the spheral symphonies do sing,I find no whither from thy power to flee,Save in thy pinions vast o’ershadowing.Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!John Payne.
OBIRDS, ’twas not well done of you!O flowers and breeze, right well ye knewThe weary glamour that the springHad laid for me on every thing.’Twas but to bring me back againThe memory of the olden pain,You lured me out with songs of birds,With violet breath and fair false words!For lo! my feet had hardly passedThe woven band of flowerage, castBetwixt the meadows and the trees,When, in the bird-songs and the breeze,Another strain was taken up;And out of every blue-bell’s cupThe mocking voices sang againThe olden songs of love and pain.The flowers did mimic the old grace;The wan white windflowers wore her face;And in the stream I heard her words;Her voice came rippling from the birds.Dead love, I saw thy form anewBend down among the violets blue,And, like a mist, the memoryOf all the past came back to me.John Payne.
OBIRDS, ’twas not well done of you!O flowers and breeze, right well ye knewThe weary glamour that the springHad laid for me on every thing.’Twas but to bring me back againThe memory of the olden pain,You lured me out with songs of birds,With violet breath and fair false words!For lo! my feet had hardly passedThe woven band of flowerage, castBetwixt the meadows and the trees,When, in the bird-songs and the breeze,Another strain was taken up;And out of every blue-bell’s cupThe mocking voices sang againThe olden songs of love and pain.The flowers did mimic the old grace;The wan white windflowers wore her face;And in the stream I heard her words;Her voice came rippling from the birds.Dead love, I saw thy form anewBend down among the violets blue,And, like a mist, the memoryOf all the past came back to me.John Payne.
OBIRDS, ’twas not well done of you!O flowers and breeze, right well ye knewThe weary glamour that the springHad laid for me on every thing.’Twas but to bring me back againThe memory of the olden pain,You lured me out with songs of birds,With violet breath and fair false words!
For lo! my feet had hardly passedThe woven band of flowerage, castBetwixt the meadows and the trees,When, in the bird-songs and the breeze,Another strain was taken up;And out of every blue-bell’s cupThe mocking voices sang againThe olden songs of love and pain.
The flowers did mimic the old grace;The wan white windflowers wore her face;And in the stream I heard her words;Her voice came rippling from the birds.Dead love, I saw thy form anewBend down among the violets blue,And, like a mist, the memoryOf all the past came back to me.John Payne.
SO sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing,So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see;So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-goingFrom flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee.So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes,The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere;So sweet the water’s song through reeds and rushes,The plover’s piping note, now here, now there.So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of cloverThe west wind blowing, blowing up the hill;So sweet, so sweet with news of some one’s lover,Fleet footsteps, singing nearer, nearer still.So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes;Now, plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear;And, water, hush your song through reeds and rushes,That I may know whose lover cometh near.So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling,Plover or blackbird never heeding me;So loud the millstream too kept fretting, falling,O’er bar and bank in brawling, boisterous glee.So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush nor plover,Nor noisy millstream, in its fret and fall,Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover,My lover calling through the thrushes’ call.“Come down, come down!” he called, and straight the thrushesFrom mate to mate sang all at once, “Come down!”And while the water laughed through reeds and rushes,The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, “Come down!”Then down and off, and through the fields of clover,I followed, followed at my lover’s call;Listening no more to blackbird, thrush or plover,The water’s laugh, the millstream’s fret and fall.Nora Perry.
SO sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing,So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see;So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-goingFrom flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee.So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes,The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere;So sweet the water’s song through reeds and rushes,The plover’s piping note, now here, now there.So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of cloverThe west wind blowing, blowing up the hill;So sweet, so sweet with news of some one’s lover,Fleet footsteps, singing nearer, nearer still.So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes;Now, plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear;And, water, hush your song through reeds and rushes,That I may know whose lover cometh near.So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling,Plover or blackbird never heeding me;So loud the millstream too kept fretting, falling,O’er bar and bank in brawling, boisterous glee.So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush nor plover,Nor noisy millstream, in its fret and fall,Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover,My lover calling through the thrushes’ call.“Come down, come down!” he called, and straight the thrushesFrom mate to mate sang all at once, “Come down!”And while the water laughed through reeds and rushes,The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, “Come down!”Then down and off, and through the fields of clover,I followed, followed at my lover’s call;Listening no more to blackbird, thrush or plover,The water’s laugh, the millstream’s fret and fall.Nora Perry.
SO sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing,So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see;So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-goingFrom flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee.
So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes,The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere;So sweet the water’s song through reeds and rushes,The plover’s piping note, now here, now there.
So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of cloverThe west wind blowing, blowing up the hill;So sweet, so sweet with news of some one’s lover,Fleet footsteps, singing nearer, nearer still.
So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes;Now, plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear;And, water, hush your song through reeds and rushes,That I may know whose lover cometh near.
So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling,Plover or blackbird never heeding me;So loud the millstream too kept fretting, falling,O’er bar and bank in brawling, boisterous glee.
So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush nor plover,Nor noisy millstream, in its fret and fall,Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover,My lover calling through the thrushes’ call.
“Come down, come down!” he called, and straight the thrushesFrom mate to mate sang all at once, “Come down!”And while the water laughed through reeds and rushes,The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, “Come down!”
Then down and off, and through the fields of clover,I followed, followed at my lover’s call;Listening no more to blackbird, thrush or plover,The water’s laugh, the millstream’s fret and fall.Nora Perry.
BARB’d blossom of the guarded gorse,I love thee where I see thee shine:Thou sweetener of our common ways,And brightener of our wintry days.Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,Thou art undying, oh, be mine!Be mine with all thy thorns, and prestClose on a heart that asks not rest.I pluck thee, and thy stigma setUpon my breast and on my brow;Blow, buds, and ’plenish so my wreathThat none may know the wounds beneath.O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold,No festal coronal art thou;Thy honey’d blossoms are but hivesThat guard the growth of wingèd lives.I saw thee in the time of flowersAs sunshine spill’d upon the land,Or burning bushes all ablazeWith sacred fire; but went my ways.I went my ways, and as I wentPluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand;Now of those blooms so passing sweetNone lives to stay my passing feet.And still thy lamp upon the hillFeeds on the autumn’s dying sigh,And from thy midst comes murmuringA music sweeter than in spring.Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse,Be mine to wear until I die,And mine the wounds of love which stillBear witness to his human will.Emily Pfeiffer.
BARB’d blossom of the guarded gorse,I love thee where I see thee shine:Thou sweetener of our common ways,And brightener of our wintry days.Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,Thou art undying, oh, be mine!Be mine with all thy thorns, and prestClose on a heart that asks not rest.I pluck thee, and thy stigma setUpon my breast and on my brow;Blow, buds, and ’plenish so my wreathThat none may know the wounds beneath.O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold,No festal coronal art thou;Thy honey’d blossoms are but hivesThat guard the growth of wingèd lives.I saw thee in the time of flowersAs sunshine spill’d upon the land,Or burning bushes all ablazeWith sacred fire; but went my ways.I went my ways, and as I wentPluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand;Now of those blooms so passing sweetNone lives to stay my passing feet.And still thy lamp upon the hillFeeds on the autumn’s dying sigh,And from thy midst comes murmuringA music sweeter than in spring.Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse,Be mine to wear until I die,And mine the wounds of love which stillBear witness to his human will.Emily Pfeiffer.
BARB’d blossom of the guarded gorse,I love thee where I see thee shine:Thou sweetener of our common ways,And brightener of our wintry days.
Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,Thou art undying, oh, be mine!Be mine with all thy thorns, and prestClose on a heart that asks not rest.
I pluck thee, and thy stigma setUpon my breast and on my brow;Blow, buds, and ’plenish so my wreathThat none may know the wounds beneath.
O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold,No festal coronal art thou;Thy honey’d blossoms are but hivesThat guard the growth of wingèd lives.
I saw thee in the time of flowersAs sunshine spill’d upon the land,Or burning bushes all ablazeWith sacred fire; but went my ways.
I went my ways, and as I wentPluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand;Now of those blooms so passing sweetNone lives to stay my passing feet.
And still thy lamp upon the hillFeeds on the autumn’s dying sigh,And from thy midst comes murmuringA music sweeter than in spring.
Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse,Be mine to wear until I die,And mine the wounds of love which stillBear witness to his human will.Emily Pfeiffer.
ICANNOT look upon thy grave,Though there the rose is sweet:Better to hear the long wave washThese wastes about my feet!Shall I take comfort? Dost thou liveA spirit, though afar,With a deep hush about thee, likeThe stillness round a star?Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphereThou art a thing apart,Losing in saner happinessThis madness of the heart.And yet, at times, thou still shalt feelA passing breath, a pain;Disturb’d, as though a door in heavenHad sped and closed again.And thou shalt shiver, while the hymnsThe solemn hymns, shall cease;A moment half remember me:Then turn away in peace.But oh! forevermore thy look,Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone,Thy sweet and wayward loveliness,Dear trivial things are gone!Therefore I look not on thy grave,Though there the rose is sweet;But rather hear the loud wave washThese wastes about my feet.Stephen Phillips.
ICANNOT look upon thy grave,Though there the rose is sweet:Better to hear the long wave washThese wastes about my feet!Shall I take comfort? Dost thou liveA spirit, though afar,With a deep hush about thee, likeThe stillness round a star?Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphereThou art a thing apart,Losing in saner happinessThis madness of the heart.And yet, at times, thou still shalt feelA passing breath, a pain;Disturb’d, as though a door in heavenHad sped and closed again.And thou shalt shiver, while the hymnsThe solemn hymns, shall cease;A moment half remember me:Then turn away in peace.But oh! forevermore thy look,Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone,Thy sweet and wayward loveliness,Dear trivial things are gone!Therefore I look not on thy grave,Though there the rose is sweet;But rather hear the loud wave washThese wastes about my feet.Stephen Phillips.
ICANNOT look upon thy grave,Though there the rose is sweet:Better to hear the long wave washThese wastes about my feet!
Shall I take comfort? Dost thou liveA spirit, though afar,With a deep hush about thee, likeThe stillness round a star?
Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphereThou art a thing apart,Losing in saner happinessThis madness of the heart.
And yet, at times, thou still shalt feelA passing breath, a pain;Disturb’d, as though a door in heavenHad sped and closed again.
And thou shalt shiver, while the hymnsThe solemn hymns, shall cease;A moment half remember me:Then turn away in peace.
But oh! forevermore thy look,Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone,Thy sweet and wayward loveliness,Dear trivial things are gone!
Therefore I look not on thy grave,Though there the rose is sweet;But rather hear the loud wave washThese wastes about my feet.Stephen Phillips.
PRINCE of painters, come, I pray,Paint my love, for, though away,King of craftsmen, you can wellPaint what I to thee can tell.First her hair you must inditeDark, but soft as summer night;Hast thou no contrivance whenceTo make it breathe its frankincense?Rising from her rounded cheekLet thy pencil duly speak,How below that purpling nightGlows her forehead ivory-white.Mind you neither part nor joinThose sweet eyebrows’ easy line;They must merge, you know, to beIn separated unity.Painter draw, as lover bids,Now the dark line of the lids;Painter, now ’tis my desire,Make her glance from very fire,Make it as Athene’s blue,Like Cythera’s liquid too;Now to give her cheeks and nose,Milk must mingle with the rose;Her lips be like persuasion’s made,To call for kisses they persuade;And for her delicious chin,O’er and under and within,And round her soft neck’s Parian wall,Bid fly the graces, one and all.For the rest, enrobe my petIn her faint clear violet;But a little truth must showThere is more that lies below,Hold! thou hast her—that is she.Hush! she ’s going to speak to me.William Philpot.
PRINCE of painters, come, I pray,Paint my love, for, though away,King of craftsmen, you can wellPaint what I to thee can tell.First her hair you must inditeDark, but soft as summer night;Hast thou no contrivance whenceTo make it breathe its frankincense?Rising from her rounded cheekLet thy pencil duly speak,How below that purpling nightGlows her forehead ivory-white.Mind you neither part nor joinThose sweet eyebrows’ easy line;They must merge, you know, to beIn separated unity.Painter draw, as lover bids,Now the dark line of the lids;Painter, now ’tis my desire,Make her glance from very fire,Make it as Athene’s blue,Like Cythera’s liquid too;Now to give her cheeks and nose,Milk must mingle with the rose;Her lips be like persuasion’s made,To call for kisses they persuade;And for her delicious chin,O’er and under and within,And round her soft neck’s Parian wall,Bid fly the graces, one and all.For the rest, enrobe my petIn her faint clear violet;But a little truth must showThere is more that lies below,Hold! thou hast her—that is she.Hush! she ’s going to speak to me.William Philpot.
PRINCE of painters, come, I pray,Paint my love, for, though away,King of craftsmen, you can wellPaint what I to thee can tell.First her hair you must inditeDark, but soft as summer night;Hast thou no contrivance whenceTo make it breathe its frankincense?Rising from her rounded cheekLet thy pencil duly speak,How below that purpling nightGlows her forehead ivory-white.Mind you neither part nor joinThose sweet eyebrows’ easy line;They must merge, you know, to beIn separated unity.Painter draw, as lover bids,Now the dark line of the lids;Painter, now ’tis my desire,Make her glance from very fire,Make it as Athene’s blue,Like Cythera’s liquid too;Now to give her cheeks and nose,Milk must mingle with the rose;Her lips be like persuasion’s made,To call for kisses they persuade;And for her delicious chin,O’er and under and within,And round her soft neck’s Parian wall,Bid fly the graces, one and all.For the rest, enrobe my petIn her faint clear violet;But a little truth must showThere is more that lies below,Hold! thou hast her—that is she.Hush! she ’s going to speak to me.William Philpot.
NOT now, but later, when the roadWe tread together breaks apart,When thou, my dearest, distant art,And tedious days have swelled the loadUpon my heart.Or haply after that, when IAm sealed within an earthy bed,Resting and unrememberèd,This scene will speak and easilyThe whole be said.Some eve, when from his burning chairThe sun below Fusina slips,And all the sable poplar tipsWave in the warm vermilion air,The wind, the lipsOf the soft breeze with wayward touchShall tell thee all I longed to own;And thou, on lurid lakes alone,Wilt say: “Poor soul, he loved me much;And he is gone.”Percy C. Pinkerton.
NOT now, but later, when the roadWe tread together breaks apart,When thou, my dearest, distant art,And tedious days have swelled the loadUpon my heart.Or haply after that, when IAm sealed within an earthy bed,Resting and unrememberèd,This scene will speak and easilyThe whole be said.Some eve, when from his burning chairThe sun below Fusina slips,And all the sable poplar tipsWave in the warm vermilion air,The wind, the lipsOf the soft breeze with wayward touchShall tell thee all I longed to own;And thou, on lurid lakes alone,Wilt say: “Poor soul, he loved me much;And he is gone.”Percy C. Pinkerton.
NOT now, but later, when the roadWe tread together breaks apart,When thou, my dearest, distant art,And tedious days have swelled the loadUpon my heart.
Or haply after that, when IAm sealed within an earthy bed,Resting and unrememberèd,This scene will speak and easilyThe whole be said.
Some eve, when from his burning chairThe sun below Fusina slips,And all the sable poplar tipsWave in the warm vermilion air,The wind, the lips
Of the soft breeze with wayward touchShall tell thee all I longed to own;And thou, on lurid lakes alone,Wilt say: “Poor soul, he loved me much;And he is gone.”
Percy C. Pinkerton.